


A chance meeting

by NovaNara



Series: Let's write Sherlock (mostly too late) [29]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Humor, John needs a break from Sherlock, M/M, Moran dreams of tiger pelts, Otters, Post-The Blind Banker, Pre-The Great Game, Tigers, Zoo, instant friendship, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-02 16:52:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4067455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John needs to get away from Sherlock, so he heeds to the zoo to unwind. In front of the tigers' cage, he meets someone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A chance meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: nothing mine.

John Watson has a secret. Well, not a proper secret – Sherlock would certainly be able to deduce it out of him if he cared to. Just something he doesn’t put on the blog. If it came up on conversation, he’d admit to it, no problem – it just hasn’t until now.

The secret is this: when Sherlock has been especially unbearable – for a long time, making the ex soldier itch to throttle him – John’s walks to calm down bring him without fail to Regent’s Park and, then, the two miles to the London Zoo.

Why? Because watching the otters never fails to calm him down. It’s a last resort, not all of John’s ‘I-need-air’ walks end to the otters’ cage, but sometimes he wonders what would happen if he _did_ talk about it. ‘My flatmate looks like an otter’. That’d be a blog post Sherlock wouldn’t forgive him for.

But the creatures’ playful antics remind him that – as much of an insufferable brat as the sleuth can often be – he’s still (mostly at least) well-meaning and, above all, the one who keeps John from a bleak existence, making him giggle (not only at crime scenes) and allowing him on cases when they come and generally making John not bored.

The only problem now is that Sherlock himself has been without a case for ten days (John begs God for the dry spell to end soon or he’ll be indeed forced to put the detective out of his misery) and as a result he’s, of course, done his level best to make a nuisance of himself, whining and sulking and devising the most disgusting and potentially destructive experiments to entertain himself.  At least he’s left John’s gun alone – Mrs. Hudson really doesn’t deserve more bullet holes in her nice walls.

Enough is enough, though, so this morning – John doesn’t have work, which is a pity, because at least that’d give him something to do away from Sherlock – after threatening to throw away everything that’s not properly labelled at his return (he almost put contaminated milk in his morning tea!) John storms away. And, of course, his legs automatically bring him towards Regent’s Park. He’s not made any conscious decision, but he’s long due a dose of furry, playful, genial flatmate lookalikes.

And yet, when he enters the zoo, he doesn’t beeline for the otters. He’s still too irritated to want to laugh. Sherlock barely stopped him from poisoning himself this morning. And – more importantly – from poisoning _his tea_. Tea is sacred. They’re British after all.

So he wanders around instead, and then he finds himself gravitating towards the big cats. Maybe because he still feels very much like a predator, ready to rip apart his flatmate when he sees him again. Oddly, in front of the tigers’ cage there’s only one man. A colleague, or a former one at least. It doesn’t take Sherlock to notice the man standing at parade rest. He’s tall - as tall as Sherlock at least, or maybe even a couple of inches more – and wears a leather jacket and skintight jeans both black

John ignores him and stands by his side to observe the sleepy tigers. Then he can’t ignore him any longer because the man talks to him. “They’re magnificent, aren’t they?” the soldier asks. Not really in the mood for conversation, the doctor makes a vague sound of assent.

“I’d want to be born a century ago – when these beauties weren’t so rare. No one would have objected to me hunting some then. That’s one rug I very much wouldn’t mind having,.” The man’s voice has taken an almost dreamy quality. John glances at him. That’s not what he expected after the heartfelt praise. There’s a small smirk on the man’s lips. “Wouldn’t you like one too? Just imagine. Making love on the soft fur, maybe in front of the fire,” he adds.

It’s probably more than a bit not good that the first image popping up in John’s mind is of his flatmate stretched on such a rug, but he’s in between girlfriends and hate sex – to put Sherlock in his place – suddenly sounds very appealing. To chase the image away (before he gets a very awkward boner) he queries with a small smile, “Was that a proposition?” This fellow soldier isn’t bad looking at all, and while John is bi, it’s a long time that he hasn’t played with a man. Maybe it’s time to start again.

The stranger turns gunmetal eyes on him. “Oh no, John. Don’t even think about that. My boyfriend would skin me alive if I cheated on him. In stripes, given the occasion we met.”

“I’m sorry – do I know you?” the doctor queries.

“No, but my boyfriend is kind of obsessed with your blog. My name’s Sebastian. Sebastian Moran, just so we’re even,” the man reveals. 

“And you’re a soldier,” the doctor remarks.

“Colonel. How do you know? Your friend’s abilities are catching? He should keep courses then,” Moran points out, raising a surprised eyebrow.

“Oh no, nothing that amazing. But if you want to hide your profession – especially from former colleagues – you’d better not stand at parade rest.” John smiles good-naturedly.

“Am I doing that?” Sebastian seems to take stock of himself for a moment. “I really am.” He barks a short laugh.

“I do that all the time, too,” the doctor assures, still smiling. Sebastian looks like a good fellow.

“We never really left the army, did we?” Moran shrugs.

“I suppose not,” John agreed. “So you’ve been discharged too?”

“Yes.” The man’s clipped voice lets the doctor know that his new friend wouldn’t go in any more details about the circumstances. John could respect that. He’d been much the same until he’d found Sherlock – still didn’t like to talk about it much, actually.

“Thank God that I’ve found my boyfriend. I was quite lost, to be honest, and then suddenly there he was. He found me a job as a guard on his same firm and made my life impossible and worth living at the same time,” Sebastian confesses quietly. It’s obvious that he’s so very grateful to his nameless boyfriend.

“I know the feeling,” John admits softly. “Well, not the boyfriend bit. I’m _really_ not together with Sherlock. But I know how it is feeling lost and then suddenly finding purpose again.”

“”They keep us alive, don’t they? That’d the reason we let them get away with anything. We’ve never had a chance to resist them.” Sebastian shakes his head in defeat. There’s a resigned quality to his voice that doesn’t fit his strong appearance at all.

John bristles. “Excuse me but I don’t. Sherlock certainly doesn’t get away with anything. I have to enforce limits if I want to survive.” 

Moran snorts incredulously. “You _manage_ Sherlock Holmes?!”

“Well, at least I try to. And I am going to throw away all his experiments if they’re not properly labelled by the time I get home,” the doctor assures firmly.

“Then you’re braver than I am. I would be careful, though. We need them, but they don’t need us. Do they?” Sebastian queries, a tinge of sadness in his words.

“I can’t talk about your boyfriend, but I’d say Sherlock does need me. I honestly do not know how he survived on his own – he has no common sense at all, and honestly, he’s too often an overgrown brat. Needing someone to take care of him,” John rants. Mycroft probably managed the bills or the shopping before John was there to take over the duty.

“Needing someone – not necessarily you. We’re replaceable,” Moran bits back.

“As if many people would agree to live in a house where the milk is a deadly trap – and that’s just the latest of his exploits,” the doctor objects. It feels good to be able to vent. He should do it more often. Maybe he should schedule having a pint with Lestrade on a regular basis.

“At least he doesn’t ambushes you with various weapons to make sure you’re still sharp and able to do your work,” Moran counters.

“Not yet – but I wouldn’t put anything past Sherlock, really. Though your boyfriend seems like a handful, too. Attacking you?” John almost laughs, but manages to keep himself from doing so. He doubts that the colonel would enjoy that.

“You have no idea how terrified I am that one time or another he will manage to really surprise me, and then training will take over and I will hurt him horribly before I realize against whom I’m acting.”

“Well, that seems like something you should really have a serious talk with your boyfriend about,” John points out, frowning.

“I can’t,” Moran groans. “If I did, he would laugh at my worries, and say, ‘But I trust you, Bast!’ Then he would give me one of these mistrusting looks of his – the ones he reserves to other people – and add, ‘Or is that your way to tell me that you’re starting to slip? That you don’t feel up to par anymore? Maybe you need a lower pressure job.’ And I can’t have him doubting me. Considering if after all it’s time to throw me away. I just can’t.”

Sebastian doesn’t even have an idea about why he was making a clean breast of so many things. He normally kept all his insecurities to himself – looking weak was at best unwise in his milieu. Perhaps it is because he regards Watson as some sort of long lost twin.

They are both adrenaline junkies, trained and ready to kill if the occasion calls for it (though Seb supposed that the doctor wouldn’t agree with his definition of ‘calling for it’, which requires only the barest hint), who have found their purpose in pandering to the whims of insane geniuses. (Though John seems much more confident in his role – he supposes that the detective never threatens to replace him. Mmm…that must have been nice.) If doctor Watson doesn’t understand his plight, who would?

John doesn’t expect the heartfelt confession. Especially not by a fellow British soldier – both sets are not known for being overly emotional. But he is used to dealing with distressed people, both in his job and during Sherlock’s cases, so he only replies gently, “I’m sure that your boyfriend loves you very much, and wouldn’t dream of replacing you just because you expressed concerns about his safety.”

Moran barks a bitter laugh. “You don’t know Jim. For one, well, I love him a lot more than he loves me. It happens in too many couples, you know. And for another, he despises safety. I’m afraid I’m not the only adrenaline junkie in our home. Which is why we work so well together, I guess. If I suggested he had to be safe all the time, I’d be sleeping on the couch for a month. That is, if he wouldn’t break up with me outright. It’s not like he would lack people to warm his bed. We’re an open couple already, as they call it.”

That is so…sad. But if John said it, he would get punched. Moran doesn’t even seem very much depressed over it – his words have been entirely matter-of-factly. He certainly isn’t talking to be pitied. In all likelihood, he just needs to vent. With the shitty situation with his boyfriend, it is no surprise that he wants to do so. So, the only thing John replies is, “I don’t think that I would be able to stand that.”

“Oh believe me, if you had to you would,” Sebastian assures him. If Sherlock had been a flirty bastard like Jim, Watson would have fallen for it line, hook and sinker. The sniper has no doubt. And if the detective’s arrangement with the morgue girl had required more than the odd compliment, the doctor would not have had a choice.

“I need what she gives me. You don’t want me to get bored, do you?” the detective would have oh so reasonably pointed out.

Perhaps John – he seems far more deluded than Sebastian about his own self-worth – would have tried to issue an ultimatum. Once Sherlock had – inevitably – picked what guaranteed him his experiments, Watson wouldn’t have moved out. He wouldn’t be able to give up cases.

And when – maybe a few weeks later – the sleuth would have offered him to share his bed again (really share, with Molly and maybe Lestrade and who knows who else – in case he was even more like Jim than he actually is already), John would have sighed but accepted a tad too eagerly, the colonel is sure.

No, not because it had gone exactly that way with him. He has a more clear perception of both his own self worth and the consulting criminal’s fickle nature, so the first time Jim had offered he’d immediately jumped to the occasion, accepting any condition that his boss laid out. Any mad request. Any kink, no matter how ridiculous Seb finds it. Never truly distasteful, thank God. He supposes that Jim and he are still somewhat on the same page. But he knows – and certainly Jim knows too, and is not a little smug about taming his sniper – that Sebastian is simply unable to deny him anything.

Unlike John Watson, apparently. But Moran will ask to be sent on spy duty now, because until he sees with his own two eyes the doctor saying, “No! You can’t,” to the sleuth, and indeed stopping him from whatever he wants to do, Seb won’t believe his claims, even if he didn’t argue further on this point with the fellow before.

He’s not even supposed to initiate contact, for God’s sake, such a pleasure should be left for Jim, who hopefully won’t discover this little conversation because he doesn’t care enough about the one he dubbed ‘the pet’ to have him followed. If Jim learns about this, Sebastian is going to be in a world of pain. Maybe lose some toes. Or get a tiny bit flayed – Jim so does love that. He hopes it would still count as an insubordination minor enough that he wouldn’t be outright killed, and maybe still be allowed to work for Jim and prove his faitfulness. The fact that he’s been the first to talk to the doctor wouldn’t help his cause any, though.

And if he got into a fight with the already cranky veteran (working with Jim one has to become good judge of mood to survive) over how much of a doormat he is or isn’t to the detective, that would inevitably come to Jim’s attention with all its unpleasant consequences. So he won’t give John any excuse to let out his pent up irritation against him.

“Enough about me,” Moran says. “Is your blog really not a work of fiction?” (On second thought, telling that might not be the best idea when he’s aiming not to irk John.) “My boyfriend liked better the other photo, but did you really get kidnapped by people who wanted your flatmate?” Sebastian has just dealt with the Black Lotus himself, he knows perfectly well that it’s true, but if he didn’t work for Jim’s organization that’s what he would ask, so that’s what he queries.

Instead of being offended at the man’s suspicion that he might be lying, John laughs. “It seems incredible, I know. But it’s really happened, I swear. One of the reasons Sherlock needs a colleague. If those hadn’t been bloody idiots, he’d have been kidnapped instead.”

“So that’s your role? Stand-in kidnappee? Or even occasional saviour in case the criminals are less clumsy?” Seb asks, smiling.

“Whatever needs be, I guess,” the doctor answers good-naturedly.”I’m not picky. And I certainly love saving him, but if I have to be occasionally saved I don’t mind – that’s what mates do.”

“Of course. So it seems that you’ve left the army even less than me. Though it might be a two person battalion,” Sebastian remarks with only a hint of teasing.

“If things keep up like this, I suspect that we’ll get into enough trouble for one,” John replies, shrugging.

“Lucky you,” the sniper counters with a grin.

“Oh, I am!” John agrees with a grin of his own. “Most of the time at least.” When Sherlock is not trying to poison him, or destroying his things in one of his harebrained experiments, or… he better stop that train of thought before he makes himself furious with his flatmate all over again. This chat is doing wonders for his mood and it’d be a pity to ruin it back.

“By the way, you wrote that your kidnappers got caught, so happy end, I guess,” Sebastian remarks.

“Well, yes. I’ll tell you something I didn’t put on the blog. Dimmock – the inspector on the case – came back to us saying that he’d found the dead bodies of the Tong’s higher ups. He wanted more of our help, but Sherlock refused to investigate what would have amounted to a ‘boring, tasteless turf war’, and I’m quoting,” the doctor reveals, shaking his head fondly at his friend’s quirks.

Seb smiles. The sleuth had gotten that wrong, but even the Sherlock Holmes can’t be perfect, no matter what Jim says, and it’s nice to know that he doesn’t have to worry about being tracked down by him. Yet he can’t resist saying, “Maybe that was an excuse. Probably your friend knew that dealing with amateurs is fine for him, but the ones who got rid of the idiots would have been true professionals, and that might be a bit more than he could chew.”

As expected, John bristles in defence of his flatmate. “Sherlock is really picky about his cases but not because he’s afraid that he won’t be able to solve them. Certainly not. He’s absolutely brilliant, I assure you. Only he’s as easy to bore as a five year old sometimes, and he wants interesting crimes. Clever ones. He took this because well, it had codes and apparently locked rooms. It was a lot of fun.  And the Tong’s smuggling was a big operation. They didn’t look much like amateurs when they were trying to kill my date. And Sherlock caught them.”

“I’m not discussing your flatmate. I’m sure you know him well, so if you say he’s like a toddler in search of amusement I’ll take your word for it. I know something about people easy to bore – my boyfriend is a nightmare in that department, I never know what to come up with t9o entertain him. Thank God sex mostly works well. And maybe the Tong were great smugglers, and certainly they were serious in their threatening. It wasn’t a game or a hobby to them after all. But they were still bloody amateurs. Idiotic rookies. I mean, which self respecting criminal kidnaps the wrong people?” Sebastian huffs.

“In their defense, more than flatmate we really live in each other’s pockets. He came along to my date, and I’d borrowed Sherlock’s money and was carrying some of his things, so when they found his credit card in my wallet what could they deduce? Until he arrived to save the day, I was having a bloody hard time persuading them that I really wasn’t him,” the doctor admits.

“Well, if I were a criminal, I’d research my victims a lot better,” Moran declares proudly. He has to hide a grin. ‘If he were’, indeed. Jim expects better of him. If he felled the wrong guy, he would get no second chance. Just die in a particularly humiliating and painful way, no doubt. And he wouldn’t even complain about it – he’d deserve it. So no, he’s not going to skip on the research phase. He knows more of his victims than some of their friends. He certainly knows who they bloody are.

When Jim told him to clean up after the Black Lotus, he thought that the consulting criminal was being particularly merciful. He had ordered a quick death. Probably because such idiots didn’t even deserve the effort it takes getting creative with either killing or torture.     

“I’m sure you would. Hell, I would too.  But what makes you think that the ones who killed the Black Lotus were more professional than their victims? As for the fact that they might be too professional for Sherlock to deal with…well, I won’t repeat how absurd and insulting I find that,” John says, mightily annoyed.

“Fine, I apologise for doubting your genius detective. My boyfriend would chew me alive if he knew I did, too – he admires Sherlock so much. As for your question, aren’t always the true professionals that get irritated when idiots muck it up in their territory?” Sebastian wonders with a shrug.

“Their territory? You don’t think that the Black Lotus had a territory of his own?” John wonders, surprised.

“We’re in England. I think they’d be renting the place. Well, I hope. I am somehow a nationalist. London’s turfs to British criminal masterminds, that’s what I hope,” Seb states. He can’t very well say that he knows because his boyfriend is the one who owns London whole and agreed to give the Black Lotus a base, as well as help with the organization of the smuggling. Really, the Black Lotus might be powerful in China – Moran is ready to take their word on that – but going international requires something more. That’s why they asked Jim’s help – and they still ultimately failed at that.

“I wouldn’t be so sure, but then again I don’t know much about organized crime. And honestly I’m not even sure if Sherlock does know, or if he finds the usual crimes of the mafia too boring to bother with,” the doctor admits honestly.

“Not that it matters much,” Seb agrees with a shrug. “British or not, organized crime will keep flourishing. And hopefully they’ll be interesting enough for your dear friend to look into it every now and then. Or someone else will get clever. You have no idea how eager my boyfriend is for your blog’s updates. They’re the highlight of his day. Sometimes I wonder if I should get jealous but I know that he wouldn’t take it well. I’m afraid that if he had to pick between your blog and me he’d pick your updates in a heartbeat. Like your flatmate, he has a passion for clever things. Which I suppose means he has a passion for Sherlock Holmes, too. It wouldn’t surprise me if one day or another he came by Baker Street to try and tempt your flatmate into playing with him.”

Fair warning. He’s being kind to the doctor. Not that he will understand until after Jim started playing in earnest with his favourite detective – and who knows, maybe not even then. If John had been brilliant like the sleuth, maybe the warning would have been enough to make him wary, but he’s no Sherlock Holmes.

Instead, the doctor only smiles. “You don’t have to worry. Even if your boyfriend offered, there’s little chance that Sherlock would agree to it. He’d likely find it all very pedestrian and not be interested. He’s full of odd ideas – the body’s only transport, for example – and I don’t even know if he’s interested in sex at all. He’s told me that he’s married to his work – he thought I was offering, which by the way I so wasn’t – and I don’t think he would cheat on it, so you have no reason to get jealous.”

“Yeah, that’s good to know, but you’ve never met my boyfriend. He’s terribly hard to deny anything. He can be beyond charming when he wants to be. And interesting – _very_ interesting. Pedestrian isn’t something anyone can assure my Jim of being, I assure you. Not even misguided detectives,” Sebastian declares with a fond grin at the thought of Jim and a hidden, internal chuckle.

John ‘so wasn’t,’ of course. Still, the detective is the most observant man at least in England according to both Jim and Watsin himself, and if he thought he was being flirted with he must have had his reasons. Seb has already admitted to having a boyfriend, so he can’t help but wonder what makes John so defensive about it while talking to him. It’s not like he would judge. Unless the poor chap is in denial himself. That must be a hard way to live – not embracing fully one’s fascination with their resident mad genius. Holding back because he’s so sure it would be entirely unwelcome. (Would it? Are Sherlock and Jim that different after all?) Seb can’t help the twinge of pity towards the doctor.     

“Simply because he’s uninterested, it doesn’t make Sherlock misguided,” John rebukes sharply.

“ ’Course not, didn’t mean it like that.but that ‘body is transport’ thing you mentioned seems worrying. He does know that he can’t get off that particular bike, does he? No suicidal tendencies?” If Sherlock offed himself mid game, Jim would be beyond fourious. And he’d want someone to torture – hopefully not him.

“No, God, no,” the doctor assures, clearly aghast at the prospect. “I mean, he’s totally reckless and if I wasn’t there some criminal or other would probably manage to kill him someday, because the idea of waiting for police backup – or indeed backup of any sort – must have been deleted from that big brain of his, but I don’t think that he’s taking these risks hoping to finally lose. He’s not like that. I would notice, I think. I’m more acquainted with the symptoms than I’d like – I’d notice,” John repeats, as if he’s trying to reassure himself most of all.

“You too, uh? We were worse than lost, weren’t we? We literally owe them our lives,” Seb points out, voice soft.

“I guess,” the doctor agrees. “But we repay them somehow don’t we?”

“We give them everything. Well, maybe I give mine a bit more than you, but not even that much in the grand scheme of things,” the former colonel acknowledges.

“We’ve chatted quite a while, so I think I’ll go say goodbye to my favourites and then heed home,” John declares, before they can start chatting further about his relationship with Sherlock and what he would wish out of it. This man seems to have a way todrag secrets out of him without John even realizing what he’s saying until after he’s already admitted them. He’s never told anyone so many things about his flatmate, despite running a blog about the man.

“Of course. And which are your favourites?” Moran queries, curious.

“The otters,” John replies honestly.

“Oh. I see,” Seb counters with a grin.

“What?” John asks, mildly worried.

“They do look rater like Sherlock Holmes,” Sebastian acknowledges, still smiling.

John’s secret is out. Well, this man won’t divulge it, will he? He’s not even interested in Sherlock. His boyfriend is the one obsessed. Still, “If you could keep that to yourself, I’d appreciate it. I don’t think Sherlock would appreciate the comparison if it became widespread,” he says.

“Fine, even if I don’t see why. The critters are cute – it’s not like we’d be calling him a snake,” Seb agrees with a shrug.

“Would you like being called a cute little thing, even only in comparison?” the doctor bits back.

“Point taken. I won’t share, I promise. Someone’s bound to notice sooner or later, though.” And hopefully Jim won’t read the meeting off him – otherwise he’s in trouble.

John should really go, but since he’s admitted this (he pretends Moran’s words about people picking up on that were never said, as he dearly hopes that to be an empty prophecy) to even the field a bit he asks, “And you? Is it just a hunter’s fascination with his prey that has you riveted to the tigers? Or do they remind you of someone?”

“My boyfriend has decidedly some feline traits in the way he plays with his victims,” Sebastian admits, then realizing what he’s just said he hurriedly tackles on, “Which is mostly me, of course. Though he says tigers are like me. Biggest felines in existence, and I’m – well – big.” And a killer, but even if the doctor knew about his army past, saying that might be a bit unwise. “I suppose it’s a bit silly of me to stay in front of this cage.”

“I don’t think so. It’s your cage, from what you told me. You have every right to make friends here,” John replies. Not just with the tigers. John certainly likes his fellow soldier. Moran is an alright bloke. “But I really have to go now.”

“Of course. Bye, John.”

“Goodbye, Sebastian.” They are so similar – it’s almost a pity that they probably won’t see each other ever again. But it’s safer, too. Who knows the kind of things the doctor might admit to this man. The things he’d report back to his boyfriend, undoubtedly. There’s that to consider. Though in later visits to the zoo, if he feels daring, he might come by the tigers’ cage and see if his new friend is there, too.  

The otters make him smile, as they unfailingly do. John’s left behind his new acquaintance and his old friends the Lutrinae welcome him with friendly snouts and playful moves. Even if his mood is already a lot better, he’s esnared by them as always and spends a quarter of a hour to admire them. 

One of them isn’t as energetic as the others, and lays down on a rock lazily, looking considerably like Sherlock when he sulks on the sofa. John shakes his head fondly at the image. Figures that even otters would have their own idle, perhaps moody idiots. (As much of a genius the detective is, he is an idiot just as much.)

Now is time to go home, though. He’s been out long enough. And so help him if Sherlock has not labelled all his experiments in the meantime. John will have to clean the fridge entirely from everything inside it. he dearly hopes his flatmate realized that the former captain makes no empty threats. Then again, Sherlock is a smart boy. And right now, John quite fancies a cup of not contaminated tea. Home it is.         


End file.
